


black sclera

by pro_se



Series: creature feature [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, hell yeah romance those monsters, monster au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-05 17:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16372265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: You want to look at him but the Irishman refuses to let you gaze upon those eyes consumed by black, the otherworldly look besides the gashes on his neck which reopen and bleed when the sun sinks behind the horizon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i was very upset with something but writing this immediately calmed me down. thanks shay <3

Shay presses his ice-cold lips to your forehead. He sighs. The sound is melancholy and dour, expressing all the tension in your taut figure, curled and huddled into his open arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his words rattling in the coming wind. “I know that... the ones closest to us can hurt the most.”

You want to look at him but the Irishman refuses to let you gaze upon those eyes consumed by black, the otherworldly look besides the gashes on his neck which reopen and bleed when the sun sinks behind the horizon. Shay just holds you close, hoping that what little warmth he offers can bring the smallest bit of reassurance, of comfort, because he can’t fight invisible demons.

“Anger… is difficult. It stirs--” Shay sighs again-- “and it makes your body think that you’re under attack. And anger can be warranted. But when it comes from reacting to ignorance and indifference, we-- we can’t let it fester. It is not your responsibility to change their mind. We hope that they can change, and then we move on with our lives because  _ we  _ are better for being good.”

He feels your fingers curl in his black coat, and then ever so slightly, you nod.

“You have a good heart. Never forget that. Promise?”

“Promise,” you whisper.

“Good. Let me take you home.”

Shay shifts his feet slightly and in the blink, the mossy forest ground below changes to scarred hardwood. Scents of pine and petrichor are instantly replaced with melting beeswax as tallow burn past midnight. He finally releases you from his grip and takes a step back, careful to shie his eyes away.

“When the sun rises, I’ll take you to your favorite bakery,” he suggests, gently stroking your chin. His dark leather gloves rasps against your skin in a familiar way and you manage a small smile. “A slice of warm bread and a fresh cup of coffee. Perfect way to start the day.”

You try and catch his gaze, and Shay grins sheepishly.

“Now, now, I don’t want to scare you--”

He halts as you wind your fingers with his. “Close your eyes,” you say softly, and he obeys. Shay hears you step closer, and how the floorboards creak as you step on your tiptoes and kiss him in the middle of his brow. Your kiss is soft and hesitant, and it takes his breath away.

He keeps his haunted eyes closed as you draw back, and then kiss him once more, on the lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> non-linear, likely of no relation to the previous chapter

You really wish that the Order had assigned another individual to coordinate attacks along the colonial coast. But the _Morrigan_ lacked a navigator, and apparently, no one else volunteered to work alongside the black-eyed man who rose from the dead. Everyone had heard rumors about the Assassin who fell to an icy death and rose to wreak vengeance on his brothers. He’s rumored to disappear in smoky wisps and leave charred footsteps in the homes of betrayers.

And though you work for the devil himself, you hastily cross yourself and then knock on the captain’s door. It swings open to reveal a dark-haired man who nearly fills the entire doorway with the stark militant coat and sniper rifle strapped on his back. He is littered with scars: the deep, infamous one carves past his right eye and a handful of delicate scars grace his neck like a noose. He tugs on a pair of gauntlets to hide his pale hands and then folds his arms across his broad chest.

“Can I help you?” he asks in a thick Irish brogue.

You hold out the conscription papers. “I’m your new navigator,” you say, flicking your gaze up and down his features. “I hear they call you the Dullahan.”

He flashes a sharp, toothy grin. “No,” he chuckles, “They call me Shay Patrick Cormac.”

Curiosity is a vicious beast. For the first few nights, the captain’s cabins are locked and you can only see his shadow pacing back and forth the shaded windows. Shay does not emerge in the nighttime. Maybe he transforms into a gruesome creature, you tell yourself, and he hides his true appearance. Yet in the daytime he is always in high spirits, joking and hurling bawdy insults at his crew.

You spend most nights behind the wheel, lazily switching between navigation maps and reading books about demons and cursed spirits. Some men emerge from their quarters to rest on the railings and gossip, while others light a few lamps and play card games. You warily maintain your distance-- after all, you were raised by books and governesses, not the ocean herself. The divide feels too great.

There nights pass and you are again alone on the ship’s deck, or so you imagine as you trace constellations over cities like Savannah and Charleston.

Lights flood the deck from below and you think, Shay must have been bored of being inside all the time. A moment passes. No one emerges. You abandon the maps and hop over the stair barricade, spying a figure in white locking swords with a disheveled, snarling Shay Cormac.

You scream for the crew and the Assassin’s head swivels to look at you. You’re enough of a distraction for Shay to break free and knock him to the floor. Moments before the sword pierces the hooded figure’s chest, the Assassin suddenly evaporates into an ashy plume of smoke, steel embedding in wood instead of flesh. Shay swears and wrenches the blade free.

“Let the crew know we have an intruder on board,” he barks at you, tossing the sword on his writing desk. His shirt are torn and bloodied, and he yanks it over his head with a frustrated sigh. There are too many scars on his naked chest and sides, too many to count or consider. “I want more people on night watch. At least three men on each shift from dusk to dawn. Understand?”

Shay looks up at you.

His eyes are completely black. There are half a dozen open, weeping wounds on his neck, raw and bloody in the gaslight. The Templar turns away and now you see a deep sword slash along his back, also bleeding profusely. “Jesus, Shay,” you breathe, taking a step back. “What the hell?”

“Get used to it,” he snaps. His voice is twisted and coarse, so unlike the smiling captain you’d grown to admire in the days past. “Go. Tell the crew. That’s an order.”

You do as he commands: you rouse the men from sleep, notify them about the sudden threat, and then return to Shay without second thought. The door is no longer locked, and you find him on the writing desk, arching to try and see the sword wound on his back. He has a rag soaked in alcohol in one hand.

Shay knows your approach but he does not look up. “What’re you doing?”

“I want to help you.”

He grits his teeth, like he wants to refuse, and then shuts his eyes tightly. “Fine.” Shay hands you the rag and you start mopping up the crimson streaks on his pale, scarred back. “You. Ever seen someone like that before? To disappear in smoke?”

“No.”

“There’s a bestiary on the shelf. Take it.” He gestures to a thick, leather bound book dyed in vivid violet and gold lettering. “Start with specters and wraiths. European. Celtic and Irish mythology, specifically.”

You apply pressure between his shoulder blades and Shay hisses in pain. “You recognized the Assassin?” you ask. He nods tightly. “And he caught you by surprise? An attack from behind?”

“It was his mistake to play with his target instead of killing me outright.”

“ _Can_ you die?”

“‘m not too eager to find out, miss.” Shay tilts his head slightly. “Hmm. Sunrise comes in a few minutes. Keep the rag on the wound. No need for stitches.”

“And your neck?”

“No point. Those never heal.” He huffs irritably. “Go on. Ask your questions. I’m sure there’s a million of ‘em.”

“How long have you been the Dullahan?”

“Ever since I left the Brotherhood.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when we first met?”

“I don’t tell anyone. They find out when it’s time. Some on the battlefield. Some by chance.”

“Does Haytham know?”

Shay scoffs. “What do _you_ think?”

“Is he the one who--” you struggle to find the right words-- “made you this way?”

His shoulders tense slightly. “No.”

“What else can you do?”

“I’m fast. I heal very quickly. I’ve better vision than most. I don’t need to sleep.”

“What? You don’t sleep?”

“No.”

As sunlight begins to creep over the horizon and through the windows, you watch some of the open gashes around Shay’s neck inexplicably stitch together and fade until they are thin, white scars. The larger sword wound takes longer, but the bleeding staunches and the skin pinches together and heals, too. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“Do you feel pain?” you quietly ask, mouth dry.

He finally looks at you and you see the last of black leach from the whites of his eyes. Shay smiles wearily. “Always.”


End file.
